


someone else's solid ground

by some_stars



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (the other wolves show up but only for one scene), Flogging, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, in my heart this is pre-slash but there's really no trace of it in the text, there is notable violence but i don't think it's Graphic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: The magistrate of Whitehaven clearly prided himself on his impeccable sense of justice."You killed the beast, witcher," he said, and produced a bag heavy with coin. "So we will keep our bargain. But you let it kill two of our people, when you were there and could have stopped it. For that, there must be justice. Blood for blood."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 61
Kudos: 315





	someone else's solid ground

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from ["Orpheus"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWMBG1Z0FuE) by Sara Bareilles.
> 
> Thanks to penny-anna for the prompt, toffeecape for helping with the ending, and the discord in general for helpful information about flogging and overall encouragement!

The magistrate of Whitehaven clearly prided himself on his impeccable sense of justice. When Geralt returned to town carrying on Roach's back not only the bloody-clawed talons of the cockatrice, but the bodies of two young lovers who had snuck out to the woods and been torn to pieces, the magistrate did not allow the townsfolk to descend on him with stones.

"You killed the beast, witcher," he said, and produced a bag heavy with coin. "So we will keep our bargain. But you let it kill two of our people, when you were there and could have stopped it. For that, there must be justice."

"Now hang on," Jaskier said; he had been waiting up at the tavern and hurried out at Geralt's return, along with much of the town. "Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but they're the ones who decided to go canoodling in the woods where there was a _monster_ instead of, I don't know, the back of someone's barn. You can hardly blame Geralt for that."

"Jaskier," Geralt said quietly, and shook his head. He could have defended himself—could have explained how he didn't know the couple was there when he lured the cockatrice into a clearing, how he had been so focused on dodging its claws that he hadn't heard their soft whispers and giggles until they turned to screams. He could have explained that he'd shouted at them to stay put, but the young man had turned to run, and the woman had followed, and their movement had drawn the monster's eye. 

But in the end, what did it matter? Two young people were dead. Geralt had failed to protect them. The town wanted someone to pay.

Jaskier settled, perhaps sensing the glaring eyes that had been turned on him at his outburst, but his face bore a mutinous frown. Geralt took the bag of coin and handed it to Jaskier, then turned to the magistrate and waited for him to continue.

After a glance between Geralt and Jaskier, perhaps to assure himself that the latter would be no further trouble, the magistrate said, "Had you killed them yourself, you would be put to death. As you only failed to prevent their deaths, the penalty is a hundred lashes. Blood for blood."

Not so keen on justice, then, if he was upping the number for a witcher. A hundred lashes for a human might well be a death sentence, but Geralt would survive. If the alternative was to fight his way out...and who knew what they would do to Jaskier, if Geralt tried anything?

( _And you did let them die,_ a small voice in his mind whispered. What was one hundred lashes for two young lives?)

He nodded. "When?"

" _What?_ Geralt, you can't seriously be agreeing to this!" Jaskier burst out, his face pale. He started toward Geralt, but the magistrate nodded at his men and two of them grabbed Jaskier's arms and held him still.

Geralt tensed, watching Jaskier struggle futilely out of the corner of his eye. "You won't harm him."

"No," the magistrate agreed. "Unless he attempts to interfere, your friend will be perfectly safe."

Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, still pulling against the tight grip of the men who held him. Their eyes met, and Geralt shook his head once. Jaskier stared at him pleadingly for a moment, then—Geralt let out a breath of relief—fell still.

"When?" he repeated, looking back at the magistrate.

"If you wish to rest and regain your strength for a night, you may," the man said, but Geralt shook his head.

"Let's get this over with."

"Very well," said the magistrate, and led him, along with the rest of the gathered townsfolk, to the center square, where a tall post stood, flecked with dark stains.

Someone went to fetch the whip and brought it back, holding it reverently with two hands. Geralt took off his armor and led Roach over to Jaskier, who was no longer being restrained, though two large men hovered near him.

"Hold her," he told him, handing him her lead. "So she's facing you. If she sees, she might panic."

"Geralt," Jaskier said pleadingly, staring at him, eyes wild with distress. Geralt wanted to comfort him, somehow, but there was nothing comforting to say.

"It'll be better for you if you don't watch," he said, and pulled his shirt off, handed it to Jaskier, and walked over to the post.

They bound his hands, and he didn't resist; it would help, to be bound. It would remove the temptation to fight back. He heard the first man take his place behind him, and then the whip cracked down.

The first several blows drew no reaction from him, not even a flinch, and he could sense the mood of the crowd darkening. It was almost a relief when the eighth lash landed criss-crossed over another, tearing his skin open, and he shied away from it, pressing up against the whipping post. The pain was still far from unbearable, but he heard satisfied murmurs around him—which was, after all, the point of this whole grotesque exercise.

The blows kept landing, one after another, and the smell of blood grew thicker in the air. Geralt tried to sink into a meditative space, to not feel the lashes the way he could choose to not feel the bite of a monster as he fought it, but something about the situation—the regularity of the lashes like a metronome, and the murmur of the crowd, and Jaskier's soft, almost subvocalized sounds of distress—forced him back to the present moment. He'd lost count, he realized, and the realization brought a wave of irrational panic that he couldn't quite fight back.

Eventually the blows ceased, and Geralt thought for a moment that perhaps it was over, but it was too soon—he had just enough time to catch his breath, to realize he was out of breath, to realize his fists were clenched hard enough that his nails were digging bloody furrows into his palms. He heard the man behind him, panting, hand off the whip to someone else, and a moment later it began again. Halfway, then. Halfway done. His back felt raw, torn open, burning with pain. He could feel the blood dripping down to stain his trousers. He hoped Jaskier wasn't watching.

The next fifty passed in a blur, though not a merciful one. Geralt couldn't begin to keep count, nor could he vanish into his mind; he simply felt the agony, and clamped his jaw shut against the grunts of pain that wanted to escape. The townspeople would like it better, he knew, if he made noise, but he couldn't bring himself to allow it. His blood would have to be enough for them.

Eventually, after some unmeasured stretch of time, the whip ceased to fall. The magistrate drew close, fingers working at his bindings. 

“It would be best,” he said quietly, “if you did not return.”

Geralt’s hands came loose and he sank to his knees. He struggled to stand—he needed to stand—but the world seemed to swim before him, and the pain and scent of blood was overwhelming. After a moment someone touched his face; he jerked away before realizing it was Jaskier.

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, and his voice was thick with tears. For a moment Geralt panicked, thinking someone had hurt him—but of course no one had. He was weeping for Geralt. “Geralt, how do I—we need to get out of here. I can’t carry you,” and he sounded disgusted with himself, as though it were an unforgivable weakness.

“Roach,” Geralt managed. “Bring her here.” He slumped over, hands pressed to the earth, and waited as Jaskier led Roach over to him. As she had been trained, she knelt low at the sight of him, and with Jaskier’s help he somehow managed to climb atop her before letting himself fall across her neck, hands fisted in her mane to hold himself steady. She was tense beneath him, but she was used to the smell of blood, and to a wounded witcher clutching at her. 

The crowd parted, murmuring, to let them through. Geralt wondered dizzily if they were satisfied. He thought of the two corpses, how their arms and legs had thumped loosely against Roach's sides as he'd led her back to town, and wondered if _he_ was satisfied. Then he closed his eyes as Jaskier led Roach down the road and out of town, and he drifted, just a little.

It wasn't until they were well clear of the town that Jaskier stopped abruptly and said, " _Geralt—_ " 

With some effort, Geralt raised his head to look at him. He'd stopped crying, as they walked, but his eyes filled up again now and spilled down his face. "Stop. Please, let's stop, let me—you're still _bleeding._ "

Geralt nodded, then frowned. “I can’t…I need help. Getting down.” If he had been alone, surely he could have managed it. He’d been injured worse without Jaskier present, gotten himself out of worse situations. But the pain was hard to think around.

Somehow the two of them stumbled through the process of dismounting, though Jaskier struggled to find a place to hold on to him that didn’t hurt. With every grunt of pain he heard a matching soft noise of distress from Jaskier, as though he could feel Geralt’s agony in his own body.

Finally he was down, and he slid down to his knees in the dirt road, breathing hard. Jaskier knelt in front of him, eyes wide. 

"Are you—Geralt, please, you must have something I can use to treat this. One of your potions, something. You can't mean to just leave it like this, you'll get infected, you could _die—_ "

Geralt shook his head and Jaskier abruptly stopped talking, though his mouth hung slightly open and tears still trickled down his face. "I won't get infected," Geralt said. "Witchers don't. But. Let's make camp."

" _I_ will make camp, thank you very much," Jaskier said—still with a tremble in his voice—and started to lead Roach off the road and into the meadow beyond. He returned shortly for Geralt, and helped him to his feet, letting Geralt throw an arm across his shoulder and lean far too much of his weight on him. They joined Roach in the meadow, a safe distance from the road, and Jaskier gently lowered Geralt back down to sitting. Another pained groan escaped him as the motion stretched his wounds, and Jaskier drew in a sharp breath.

“Just let me get everything set up,” he said, “and then we’ll see what we can do for you, all right?”

Geralt watched Jaskier busy himself unloading their bags and bedrolls and clearing out a suitable spot for a fire, feeling very distanced from it all, as though a thick veil hung between him and the world. He couldn't have said how much time passed, watching Jaskier, only that he was startled when he looked back up and saw Jaskier in front of him, hand extended.

"Come on, come and lie down," he said. "Let me at least wash your wounds. Even if you can't get infected, you don't want dirt getting trapped in there."

Geralt took his hand and let himself be led to his bedroll. He paused on the way to cast an Igni at the firepit Jaskier had dug, and the effort of it dazed him enough that he stumbled. Jaskier caught him, swearing vociferously, and didn't let go of him again until he was lying down on his front. It was an unspeakable relief to lie down, even with the pain of the lashes still ravaging his back. He didn’t want to think what the wounds must look like to Jaskier, who shouldn’t have had to look at such things.

But Jaskier said nothing, only sat there silent for a minute, gently combing his fingers through Geralt’s hair as his heart thumped out a rapid beat that was at odds with his stillness. “All right,” he said eventually, “I’ll get some water and…well, we don’t have any rags, but I do have a spare undershirt. I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.” The gentleness in his voice belied his words; Geralt grunted a response and waited, listening to the sounds of fabric tearing. 

Jaskier touched his arm in warning before setting to cleaning the wounds, and Geralt couldn’t help tensing in anticipation. It hurt, badly enough that he let out a hiss before biting his lip against any further noises, but he knew it had to be done. He’d often had to let wounds heal closed around debris when he was by himself and too injured to tend to them or unable to reach them before his accelerated healing kicked in, and the resulting days or weeks of irritation were nigh unbearable.

Still, he found himself trembling under Jaskier’s touches, and it was a relief when Jaskier started to speak to him as he worked. His voice was low and quiet, almost musical, and he didn’t speak of anything in particular—a song he was working on, a festival he was looking forward to—but it was a welcome distraction.

Finally Jaskier said, “Well, that’s about as clean as I can get it.” He patted Geralt’s arm, his hand lingering. “Now just…rest, all right? I’ll stay up tonight and keep watch, and I’ll wake you if anything comes near.”

Privately Geralt doubted Jaskier’s ability to stay awake, but now that the pain had subsided a little the inevitable exhaustion was setting in. He could have stayed awake, if he had to. He could have meditated, which was almost as healing as unconsciousness. But he wanted very badly to sleep, and so he closed his eyes and allowed it.

—

He woke a few hours later to the familiar sound of singing, though softer than usual. The singing hadn’t woken him—a burning need to urinate had done that—but it floated pleasantly around him as he rose to consciousness. As soon as he stirred, the singing stopped and Jaskier looked over at him.

“Is everything all right?”

Geralt grunted. “’m fine. Just have to piss.”

He shrugged off Jaskier’s offer of help and stumbled to his feet with a groan. Moving hurt like the devil, but he could do it—he could feel that the wounds were already starting to close. He shuffled off a respectable distance, took care of his business, and returned to more singing.

“New song?” he asked, sitting down heavily. 

“Let’s just say I was inspired,” Jaskier said with a rather unpleasant smile, and launched into a verse.

“ _So witchers, young heroes, do-gooders, beware  
For they’ll wreak bloody vengeance on any who dare  
To lend them a hand, so it’s best you take care  
‘Round the ingrates of Whitehaven town._”

Geralt frowned. "That's not..." Jaskier had composed such songs before about towns that cheated him out of his pay, and Geralt had always found them worth a quiet chuckle—and rather touching, though he'd never say as much. But this was different.

"Not what? Not _fair?_ " Jaskier stared at him, eyes narrowing. "That is what you meant, isn't it? You can't be serious."

"They paid me," Geralt pointed out. "In full."

"They beat you half to death!" Jaskier's hands were tight fists in his lap, his eyes afire with a rage Geralt had never seen before. It stirred something uncomfortable deep inside him, some raw sense of unease that left him off-balance.

"Their people were dead," he said. "They had to blame someone. People need to feel like there's justice."

Jaskier snorted bitterly. "So they might as well take it out of your hide, is that right? You can't honestly tell me you just sat back and let those idiots die, though I daresay they deserved it. You would have saved them if you could."

Geralt shook his head, but he wasn't sure what he was disagreeing with. It was true, after all; he'd warned the young couple to stay still, and they hadn't listened. He'd been flat on his back reeling from a blow that had sent him flying when he'd heard them die. He couldn't have done more. And yet—

"Besides," Jaskier said more gently, breaking into his thoughts, "suppose it had been another witcher who'd taken the contract?" 

Brows furrowing, Geralt looked up at him. "What if it had?"

"I’ve gathered, over the years, that you’re somewhat stronger than the average witcher," Jaskier said. "Tougher. Harder to kill.”

He shrugged; it was true enough. The extra mutations had left him more resilient than his brothers, though he rarely thought of it that way.

"What do you think might have happened if they'd done this to some other witcher, then? Someone traveling alone...a hundred lashes. You couldn't even _walk_ , Geralt." Jaskier's voice was still gentle, but he spoke with utter conviction. "Another witcher might have died at their hands. And I've also gathered, over the years, that there aren't very many of you left."

The quiet words made the bottom drop out of his stomach. The thought of one of his brothers suffering what he'd suffered—Lambert or Eskel tied to that post, bleeding out under the lash—left him struggling for breath. If the people of Whitehaven had killed one of them with their need for vengeance...

Word had always had a way of spreading, among witchers—back when there were more of them—about certain towns. Towns that didn't pay up as agreed, of course, but more than that, towns where witchers looking for work were chased back out with stones, or worse; towns where witchers resting after a contract were attacked in their beds and barely escaped with their lives.

Most of all, though, word spread about the towns where a witcher hadn't escaped. A reputation for cheating might fade after twenty years, but the black spot of murder lasted generations, rare though it was. There were still a couple towns Geralt always detoured around, though he hadn't really thought about why in decades.

His thoughts stuttered to a halt when Jaskier laid a hand over his own, squeezing gently. "Let me write the song," he said. 

Geralt met his eyes and nodded. Jaskier smiled and patted his hand before letting go. "Now go back to sleep, you need to rest."

He interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn, looking sheepish, and Geralt said, "You too. I'll hear if anyone comes near."

"If you're sure," Jaskier said, already lying down.

—

Jaskier was reluctant to leave him, even two weeks later, but he'd been chattering about the upcoming bardic competition at the midsummer festival in Novigrad for weeks, and he couldn't put off his departure any longer. 

The morning before he left, Jaskier paused while they were bathing in a river and stroked a hand over the mess of new scars on Geralt's back. It was a strangely intimate gesture, but somehow it didn't feel out of place, perhaps because of the way Jaskier's face was set in terribly serious lines as his fingers traced the marks, which were already fading from pink to white.

"I'm going to sing that song at Novigrad," he said. "I mean, my main entry will be something a bit more artistic, but it's custom to close out with a popular ballad, and there'll be dozens of other bards there. I don't think Whitehaven will see a witcher again for a while."

"Hm," Geralt said, distracted by the play of Jaskier's fingers over his scars, reverent in their gentleness. There was still sensation there, though it was muted. 

Jaskier laughed. "The gods won't strike you down if you say _serves them right,_ you know."

"Why would I," Geralt said, "when I have you to say it for me?"

They finished bathing and packed their things, and parted ways at the next crossroads. Jaskier startled him, after they'd exchanged farewells, by seizing him into a fierce hug, squeezing tight as he pressed his face into Geralt's shoulder. After a frozen moment, Geralt slowly returned the embrace, patting Jaskier's back awkwardly until the other man stepped back, still holding tight to Geralt's shoulders.

"Take care of yourself," Jaskier said, and the raw _care_ in his expression made Geralt's throat tighten up. "I mean it, all right?"

"I will," Geralt said, perhaps more gruffly than necessary, and Jaskier studied his face for a moment before nodding and letting go. Geralt watched him walking down the western road until he was almost out of sight.

—

Two months later, as summer faded into autumn, he took a job in a small town outside Lyria that was being plagued by some unspecified monster, with three men dead already—one set upon in the woods at night, and two who had tried to kill the beast and lost their lives in the process.

After a few hours of tracking, it turned out to be a young wyvern, and it would have been a nasty fight indeed had the thing not been wounded. Geralt gave silent thanks to the two dead men who had damaged its wing; the wound was clearly festering, and not only was the wyvern earthbound, but it moved more slowly than it should have, obviously suffering from an infection. Geralt barely broke a sweat taking its head off.

He tossed the head into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and made his way back to town. It was late, but not past midnight, so he banged on the alderman's door until the man appeared.

"Wyvern," Geralt said shortly, and dumped the bag out at the man's feet. He took a quick step back, grimacing, and then frowned.

"I thought wyverns were bigger than that," he said. Geralt held back a sigh.

"It was a young one," he said. "Nearly as deadly, though. My pay?"

The alderman's frown deepened as he looked Geralt up and down. "Doesn't look like it did you any harm," he said. "Can't have been too hard a job. Five hundred seems awfully generous."

It was no unfamiliar scene, and every time it happened Geralt had to make a choice: take whatever scraps he was given, or intimidate the man with the coin into paying up. Intimidation could be risky; he'd been called on, once or twice—decades ago—to back it up, and drawing a sword on the head man of a town left a poor impression. There was also the inherent risk of bluffing; he _wouldn't_ kill a human for shorting him on his pay, and once weapons were drawn that would become clear soon enough.

The alderman lifted his chin as Geralt looked at him, clearly feeling that he was winning whatever battle of wills lay between them. "I'll give you two-fifty," he said, with the air of a man handing a coin to a beggar.

Geralt was silent too long, and the alderman took it as assent and vanished back into his house. He returned a minute later with a purse that was clearly less than half full and thrust it out. As Geralt reached out to take it, the motion pulled at the scars on his back, and he heard Jaskier's voice in the back of his head: _Take care of yourself._

He dropped his hand. "Suppose it had been a harder fight than usual, then," he said. "Suppose the wyvern had injured me. Would you be paying me extra?"

The alderman's air of smug victory dissipated rapidly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brows furrowing. "That hardly seems relevant," he said eventually, a slight whine in his voice.

Geralt pulled himself up to his full height and crossed his arms. "Five hundred," he said, and waited. The alderman gaped like a fish; it was almost comical, watching his victory snatched out from under his feet. When the man gave no response, Geralt began to slowly crack his knuckles, and the alderman blanched.

"Five hundred," he said quickly, and the petulance was more than slight now. He went back inside and returned with the purse in his hand full up. Geralt took it and opened it, shoving his hand inside to feel around; he wouldn't put it past the man to fill half the bag with stones. But it was gold all through, and he nodded his agreement, then nudged the wyvern head with his toe. 

"I'd get rid of that if I were you," he said. "They rot fast once the sunlight hits them."

He gave himself just a moment to savor the alderman's dismay before turning on his heel and striding away, heading for the inn where he'd stabled Roach. 

—

He'd been lured off course by a lucrative contract on the road north that winter that took over a week of careful hunting, all the while the weather worsening. By the time he made it through the gates of Kaer Morhen, the driving snow had worked its way through the gaps in his cloak and armor and left his shirt unpleasantly damp and his trousers positively wet. He bypassed the great hall—always empty these days, too hard to heat with the ever-growing number of cracks in the walls—and headed for the small hall next to the kitchen, where he could hear the soft sounds and murmuring voices of the others who had made it there days ago. He peeled off his wet cloak as he went, skin shivering in anticipation of the roaring fire that awaited.

They were all three there—no Coen this year, if he hadn't made it up yet, and Geralt felt the familiar pang that came when anyone was absent, but it was drowned out by the warmth that spread all through him as Lambert and Eskel rose to greet him. Lambert embraced him with a slap on the back before pulling away.

"You cut it close this year," he said with a smirk. "Almost thought you wouldn't make it."

"Sorry to disappoint," Geralt said, and smirked back at him. "Got caught up on a contract, but it paid well."

Then Eskel was sweeping him into a bear hug, one he returned just as fiercely, breathing in the familiar scent of his brother as they hugged. He hadn't crossed paths with Eskel at all this year, which was unusual—they usually tried to meet once or twice—and holding him in his arms brought a gut-deep satisfaction. 

Eskel stepped back after a moment, though he held on to Geralt's upper arms and gave him a little shake. "Good to see you, Wolf." He smiled crookedly. "Another year gone by, eh?"

"Seems that way," Geralt said, a smile tugging at his own mouth. He crossed the room to the fire, nodding and greeting Vesemir where he sat in his thick-stuffed soft armchair, but by now he was in a hurry to get his wet clothes off and dry off in the heat. He shed his armor and stripped down, and he was so preoccupied with the delicious warmth of the fire, he only noticed a minute later that Lambert and Eskel's chatter had fallen abruptly silent.

He turned around, eyebrows raised, and saw them both sitting and staring at him. "What?"

"I heard a new song going around the taverns the last few months," Eskel said after a moment. "About a town called Whitehaven."

It was the scars, of course. They were pale by now, but far from faded; that would take years. "Had a little trouble there," he said. "Best if we all avoided it for a while." _A while,_ in witcher terms, meant a generation or so. He thought about Jaskier saying, _Suppose it had been another witcher?_ and added, "A long while."

"Figured as much from the song," Lambert said. "I knew you had your own personal barker these days, but I can't fault the bard for this one." He had taken great pleasure, over the past decade or so that Geralt had been the barely-willing subject of Jaskier's ballads, in mocking Geralt for it at every turn, but he sounded sincere enough now.

"Looks like it healed well, though," Eskel said with a nod. There was so much unspoken in it—concern, relief, and the quiet banked rage that Eskel had always had on Geralt's behalf ever since they were young and he'd sat by Geralt's bed for days after the second round of trials.

It felt familiar in a new way now, though, and it took Geralt a moment to figure out why. The shine in Eskel's eyes was the same as the way Jaskier had looked at him, that night after the whipping. The way he'd looked at Geralt when he'd said, _Take care of yourself._

"It did," he said finally. "I had help."

"Glad to hear it," Eskel said, and Lambert and Vesemir made quiet matching noises of agreement. Geralt sat back down in front of the fire, thoughts turning over slowly in his head, and let himself bask in the warmth surrounding him.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://some-stars.tumblr.com/) for Witcher shitposts, WIP updates, occasional prompt fills, and just because I very much need people to talk to about this stupid, stupid show. :D? :D? Also, if you would like to reblog this story, you can [do so here!](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/631518219389255680/someone-elses-solid-ground-somestars-the)


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